


i will stay forever here, i'll wait for your love

by demisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Someday, Asha will ride into Winterfell and rescue her brother.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>written for the asoiaf kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	i will stay forever here, i'll wait for your love

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to (and the title was stolen from) [One Day, by Trading Yesterday](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwIJUzeSE5Q).

She dreams of it as a child. 

Dreams of riding through snow on a big black horse, a gold and black shield in one hand and a sword in others; it is a time before she learned to throw axes, a longer time before she gets good at it, but when she does the dreams change and she can hack down the doors of the castle with the two throwing axes she wields. She has no true image of what Winterfell looks like in her head, but likes to picture it high and foreboding, dark walls surrounded by a blanket of snow so cold it makes her skin feel warm, and with a big, big door that shivers under each blow. Sometimes, when she wakes, her arms are sore and she is convinced that she actually did it; that she is sleeping in the great castle across the waters and that any moment the men she vanquished will come into her chamber and bring in the little brother they stole, present him to her and beg her to return home from whence she came.

But the sea crashes on rocks outside, and it is her mother who opens the door to her bedchamber to bid her get dressed.

It is her mother that makes these dreams so vivid; Alannys Harlaw had a strong face, but when her eyes were rimmed with red, cheeks a blotchy tearstained map of dispare and lips turned downward in a perpetual grimace, it was hard not to see how the end of her father's rebellion had hurt her. When her lady mother starts to wonder the hallways at nice, wrenching Asha from her dreams with cries of _Theon, Theon, my baby boy where have you gone?_ it hurts her as well. Every morning when she descends the stairs and happens upon a maester pulling splinters from the pads of her mother's feet hurts as well, but she doesn't cry. Balon Greyjoy distances himself from his wife once she starts crying, and Asha is not like to risk the same when he had just taken to calling her into his presence; to bidding her sit and learn the ways of the Iron Isles, preparing her to rule.

After a year, before her fourteenth name day, they spend an evening discussing the old way. When she asks why they do not sail to the north and take _back_ what is theirs, he glowers at her. He asks her if she really does not want to be his heir, and though she shakes her head and says no, she cannot help but think _if you really don't want your son back?_ He cuffs her around the ear six months later when she asks the question again.

It is when her mother is removed from the islands, taken to Harlaw to keep her health, that Asha is stirred to action. She visits, and for the first time, the Lady Alannys does not snap out of her dispare, does not recognize her child, does not bid her to come into her arms and press a dry kiss to her temple; she sits by a window in a tall tower, and when Asha opens the door, she simply turns her head and asks _Have you brought my baby to me? My baby boy?_

The day she returns to Pyke, she finds a ship setting sail for the mainland. The men look at her warily, but do not dispute Balon's heir, nor threaten to tell her father when she pulls the dirk from her belt. They bow, bid her climb into the small wooden boat setting sail for the longship anchored out at sea, and she has a foot in when two large hands grab her, one in her hair and the other in the fabric of her tunic, and pull her back into the water. She is submerged, struggles and breaks the surface only when the hands pull her up. It is a time before she can focus, before she can blink the salt from her eyes and will away the stinging tears, before she can cough up the mouthfuls of water she drank and splutter wildly. She sees hair, long and unkempt, and a young, familiar face.

 _What are you doing, girl,_ the Damphair growls water lapping around the robes he had worn into the sea, and when she gapes at him in confusion, he pushes her head under again. _What are you doing, girl?_

She coughs, then, and finds that lying would be pointless. _I'm going to - rescue Theon._

 _The wolves have him,_ Aeron Greyjoy hisses, tightening his hold on her hair and shaking her head until little flecks of water fly from the strands escaping his hand. _You'd need an army to take a castle like Winterfell, and you have one. It's far from the sea, and you could never keep it. The northern men think to keep Balon's son in hopes of preventing his pride to turn to wrath, and wrath to action. Do you really think they'd be moved to surrender their hostage to your whims?_

 _I don't -_

He doesn't give her time to answer, doesn't let the defiant tone manifest. He pushes her head under again, and holds her there until her thrashes grow weak. When he pulls her up to break the surface again, he lets her cough, splutter, wretch until she's quieted and can look at him. Not for the first time, Asha is reminded that all the Greyjoys have grayish green eyes, and wonders why her uncle Damphair's look suspiciously bluer. Aeron leans over her, hand moving from her soaked clothes to hold her face in a big hand, to clamp over her mouth so she may not interrupt. Hot breath cascades from her nose over his wet knuckles, and Asha thinks he smells like to sea.

 _The Drowned God kisses you, child. Every time you run into the sea, he welcomes you to swim in it; to splash and play like you were nothing but a flat chested brat. When you drown, he will welcome you into his watery hall with open arms. But **not**_ -

His hand tightened, fingers digging into the flesh of her cheeks when she began to struggle against him.

_\- not your brother._

His tone brooked no argument.

_Forget him. He may not die, but he is dead._

And when he removed his hand, she did not speak. When he dragged her from the water, she did not struggle. When he bid her return to the castle, she did. Eventually, a year later, when he caught her steely scowl in the dining hall and bid her again - _forget about your brother_ \- she did.


End file.
